


The Nature of Addiction

by mwaters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dominance, Fetish, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwaters/pseuds/mwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can always count on Mycroft to give him what he really craves</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Addiction

A chaos of voices and a colorful variety of footfalls sounded from the hallway just outside Mycroft's office, getting louder by the nanosecond, but the gentleman was not perturbed. Indeed, as he leaned back in his luxurious leather office chair, gently tapping both forefingers against a tightly controlled smirk, those voices arguing pointlessly against a lone baritone brought with them the promise of a much needed distraction. 

Even before his approaching interruption let himself in, Mycroft snapped the button at the side of his desk and requested of a secretary several rooms away, “No one else comes on. Clear my schedule till the afternoon.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Make sure the doors...”

Sherlock was already on his way to secure any other entrance into the room while grumbling, “I know.” 

Mycroft regarded his brother as he took his time approaching the desk from across the room. He noticed how Sherlock's hands were jammed into the pockets of his coat, and how his lips twitched slightly, far too slight a movement for anyone else to notice, despite his casual, even haughty, demeanor. He wore the expression that often marred his features when summoned to do anything but what he selfishly wanted to do instead.

In the mood to play, Mycroft similarly pretended to be inconvenienced, scribbling onto fancy stationary and keeping his eyes down. Years of tight control kept a grin from breaking that solemn expression when Sherlock remarked, “You're writing gibberish on an official document. I didn't think you got bored.”

Mycroft allowed a small smile as he tapped his pen down with one finger, and gazed openly at his brother. “I don't have anything for you today, if that's what you're after,” he said, but he already knew it wasn't and he knew his distinct lack of iciness would make that clear to Sherlock. But years of habit, and the pure joy of the mind game prohibited the two to bypass the obvious deceit.

“There are two things I need from you,” Sherlock said with a hard edge to his voice. 

“Oh, do take off that cloak, Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted breezily.

Doing so enabled Sherlock to loosen up a hair; at least he couldn’t hide those hands so easily. Still, he did not come too close to the desk, standing nearly ten paces away. “The first, a cigarette.”

The corners of Mycroft's eyes crinkled in obvious delight. “You flatter me, Sherlock. But no, I am not the world's only supplier of tobacco.” He chuckled indulgently while Sherlock merely narrowed his eyes. “What's wrong with simply buying a pack, my dear? Don't want your little friend to catch you? Oh, how do you tolerate such scrutiny?”

Sherlock's jaw clenched as he glanced away, fixing his gaze on the items of Mycroft's desk, as if to formulate some long winded theory or another. Reflexively, Mycroft tensed. “You know perfectly well.”

“I do like to hear you explain yourself, brother. It's...amusing.”

“Hardly a month has passed, and you've already forgotten?”

Mycroft scoffed. “Please. You wish you had the self control to wait that long!” Sighing, as if weary of this whole scene, Mycroft curled his fingers around a drawer handle and slid it out. Methodically, he produced a pack of cigarettes and inched one out, one finger caressing the filter, where Sherlock would place his lips. He watched his brother's eyes follow its lazy movements, oblivious to all else. 

“Go on. Amuse me.” 

Snapping his attention back to Mycroft, Sherlock licked his lips and stated, “As you've been told numerous times before, my dear brother, if I bought a pack, I would devour it within hours, whereas merely one cigarette would have minimal affects on my health; additionally, if I deny my craving too harshly, then I will indeed raid a smoke shop with decidedly disagreeable consequences.”

Mycroft smiled as he listened, nodding in agreement at times. When Sherlock was finished, he took a deep sniff of the coveted cigarette, sliding it beneath his nostrils. “And you choose to enjoy it here, with me? My, what an honor!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Mycroft could tell he was really reigning himself in, more concerned about getting what he wanted rather than sparring with him. “You may believe that if you wish, but in reality, I don't want the smell on my clothes.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Can't have your little friend finding out.” Mycroft's smirk stretched with enjoyment of this little game, at how despite his patronizing attitude, Sherlock was still there, willing as ever to put up with him if that would serve his own ends. “How is he, by the way?”

Sherlock's eyes hardened. “The cigarette, Mycroft.” 

“Now what if I were to say no?” Mycroft teased, leaning back in his chair. “What would you do then?”

“But you won't,” Sherlock answered, as if nothing were more obvious. “You know that if I don't satisfy my craving now, in the safe environment you can provide, I'll go out and do something stupid.” It was Sherlock's turn to smirk, though for him, it was more of a curl to the lip, a rather hostile looking expression to anyone who didn't know what one was looking at. “And it would be entirely your fault.”

“Would you really hurt yourself just to spite me?” Mycroft asked needlessly. Of course he would. “Now I really feel special.” He placed the cigarette on the desk, perfectly in line with it, harmonious with everything on it, and put the pack away. Casting his eyes up to Sherlock, who hadn't budged, Mycroft asked in a sterner tone, “And the second thing?”

“You already know that,” Sherlock muttered. “But you want to hear me say it anyway, don't you?”

Mycroft swept his hands across the desk, inviting his brother to speak.

But Sherlock's lips were pursed, his brow hard with discomfort. “Really, Mycroft...”

“How can I possibly serve you, if you won't tell me what you need, Sherlock?” He clasped his hands, touching forefingers to his lips. “Tell me your other craving.”

“I need--want,” Sherlock began, chewing the inside of his cheek. Mycroft rubbed his bottom lip with his fingers in enjoyment of the show, of the shyness sneaking through his brother's obstinate attitude. “Sex,” Sherlock growled the word, casting Mycroft a hard look.

“Now, why is that so difficult to say?” Mycroft asked, sweetly. He crossed one leg over the other and slid one hand down his thigh to rest at the knee. “Are you embarrassed? Ashamed?”

Sherlock only stiffened his bottom lip and looked askance. This little prelude had been repeated, in one form or another, nearly every time, and Mycroft never tired of it. This time, however, he skipped ahead to the next phase, and he was sure that his little brother could tell by the subtle change in his body language. 

“So which comes first this time?”

“The cigarette,” Sherlock answered flatly. “I don't think you want me thinking about that the whole time.”

“Well, perhaps I do,” Mycroft disagreed brightly. His lips curved playfully. “Your impatience might add a certain...energy to it.” 

“Fine, if not for yourself, then for me. I'd like it first,” Sherlock said, and seemed to be refusing to give in to Mycroft's taunts. He still seemed so high strung, so hard around the edges, making Mycroft all the more determined to loosen him up. Then again, it was usually like this, as if Sherlock came to him only as a last resort.

“Oh, very well, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, but he did not simply hand it over. Instead he fingered the item on the desk and with his other hand gestured Sherlock to step back. “But you'll need to disrobe first. Don't want the smell on your clothes, now do we? That's it, back where your cloak is, very good.” 

His brother undressed with no issue, as if he were alone. Mycroft tittered disapproval at how Sherlock dropped his clothes untidily on the floor, but didn't press the issue. However, before he could take one step, Mycroft stopped him with a raised hand. Pausing for dramatic effect, Mycroft then tilted his hand down, pointing to the floor. 

Sherlock made a face. “I beg your pardon,” he grunted.

“My dear brother, you barge in here, giving me absolutely no notice, and demand your personal needs to be catered to immediately,” Mycroft lectured. “Now I have no problem indulging you, as you well know. But I am beginning to feel as though you are merely taking advantage of me.” He leaned forward, sliding his leg off the other. “Don't I deserve something in return?”

The men locked eyes for a moment, before Sherlock relented with little protest, as Mycroft suspected he would. With a smug smile, he leaned one elbow on his desk and watched his younger brother creep along the marble floor on his hands and knees, his movements slow and awkward, his teeth clenched in embarrassment, or perhaps the pain of the hard floor against his knees. But despite all that, Sherlock kept his head up and his eyes fixed on his brother, ever defiant. Mycroft made no attempt to hide his enjoyment. He even beckoned Sherlock with a finger. 

Having finally reached his brother's feet, Sherlock rose up on his knees and placed his hands on the arms of Mycroft's chair, his face slightly flushed from the physical exertion of crawling all that way, his brow knitted together in indignation. But he was not quite as angry as he probably should have been, more impatient for his smoke. Mycroft slipped a few fingers to Sherlock's throat, where they slid, just barely touching the skin, up along the neck and off the chin, while the cigarette twirled in the fingers of his other hand. 

Mycroft brought it to his brother's lips, but drew it back just as Sherlock leaned forward for it. In response to Sherlock's furious expression, Mycroft gently pushed his head down, making him go back on all fours. “Now what do you want?” Sherlock grumbled, but soon figured it out when he found himself eying his brother's shoe. “You repulsive--”

“I've always been curious as to the nature of addiction,” Mycroft interrupted, in a suddenly clinical tone. “But even years of studying you has brought me no closer to understanding how far one will go for one's next fix.” 

“Look no further than yourself,” Sherlock snarled from the floor. “Once your diet loses its appeal.” 

Mycroft's jaw clenched. Ignoring the slight, for the moment, he said, “This is all entirely your choice, Sherlock. You can get up now, get dressed, and leave, and I shan't think any less of you. In fact, I just may applaud you for overcoming your...desires.” 

Mycroft could just barely see the challenging glare from Sherlock as he glanced upward before committing to his decision. Without the need of any more prodding, Sherlock lowered his head and dragged his tongue across the patent leather of his brother's shoe. He took his time, and even seemed to be enjoying himself. He was already working on the second one when Mycroft lit the cigarette and put it in his own mouth. For a blissful moment he enjoyed a good, long drag while his brother cleaned his shoes with his tongue. 

When Sherlock determined himself to be finished, he slipped his hand up Mycroft's trouser leg and gripped his shin. Mycroft gazed down at the nude back below him, stroking his bottom lip with the cigarette filter. His brother's sneaky, slightly scratchy touch was getting him quite clearly aroused, to be sure, but it was his brother's unpredictable nature in particular that excited him. Even in the subjugated position he was in, Sherlock could still find a way to turn the tables, Mycroft was sure. 

Which could only mean, of course, that Mycroft had to tighten his control. 

He reached down and gripped Sherlock by his thick curls, tugging just enough to prompt him to climb into his lap, although without Sherlock's reluctant cooperation, such a feat would be impossible. His brother's body, while slender, was large of frame and of considerable weight, difficult for a man who went out of his way to avoid physical labor to control. Combine that with the young man's refusal to submit without a fight, and Mycroft had his hands full. Sherlock stared hard at his brother with the beginnings of a snarl, but made himself comfortable on his lap.

“You're smoking my cigarette,” he accused.

With a sly smile, Mycroft blew smoke into Sherlock's face and then turned the cigarette around with the filter facing the other. When Sherlock tried to take it with his fingers, Mycroft jerked it back. With a frown, Sherlock leaned forward and opened his mouth. Mycroft smirked approvingly and held it while Sherlock sucked in a hearty drag, his eyes drifting closed in ecstasy. Mycroft felt his bother's body tense up as the chemicals and smoke invaded his system, and then relax with the smoky exhale. 

“We'll share two,” Mycroft conceded. “One now, and one after. Did you think I was going to cheat you?” He took a puff before holding it for Sherlock again.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He spat smoke from his closed teeth and shifted closer. The arms of the chair were not looped, thus giving Sherlock's legs room to slide along Mycroft's thighs, bringing their pelvises almost close enough to touch. Sherlock was already hard, not that Mycroft should have been surprised, but he was pleased nonetheless. His erection pressed against Mycroft's belt; good thing his suit jacket was buttoned over his belt, or that might not be too comfortable, Mycroft mused. 

Mycroft held the cigarette, now more than half spent, out to the side, out of the way, as he took hold of his brother's hair and pulled him closer for a kiss. Even before their lips touched, Sherlock opened his mouth and reached his tongue out. Sherlock's mouth tasted like an ashtray, though Mycroft suspected his would as well. This slightly off-putting taste was not about to ruin their kiss, however. In fact, Mycroft found the ashy taste particularly exciting, particularly distinctive of his brother. 

Pressing his groin harder against Mycroft's unforgiving belt buckle, Sherlock pressed even harder into the kiss, forcing Mycroft to lean back in his chair. Mycroft had to remove his hand from Sherlock's hair to steady himself with his desk. As if competing, Mycroft reciprocated with a vengeance, adding teeth to the mix. At one point he grabbed hold of Sherlock's tongue with his incisors and held it for a moment. Sherlock allowed his brother to dominate the kiss after that. 

Mycroft nudged Sherlock away to take in some breath. By now his heart was racing, his chest was heaving. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation. While his brother stared down at him, similarly out of breath, Mycroft slid his free hand around Sherlock's waist and held it steady. He took another puff of the cigarette and pressed his lips against Sherlock's chest. His lips brushed along the slightly sweating flesh as he moved across to the side. He inhaled his brother's musk as his tongue probed his nipple. Sherlock leaned his head over his brother's and took hold of his shoulders as his nipple underwent some savage licking and a little biting. When the biting got too intense, Sherlock gripped his brother's throat in a threatening gesture, but he did not squeeze. Mycroft had no qualms about calling Sherlock's bluff and biting down even harder until he finally let go. 

“You bastard,” Sherlock hissed as he pulled back. His face was red at the cheeks and glistening at the brow. His hair was beginning to stick to his scalp, the normally bouncy curls hanging limply. And no wonder, as Mycroft could plainly detect with one touch to the torso, his brother was really heating up.

Mycroft laughed and handed the rest of the cigarette to his brother, who snatched it with an exaggerated indignation. The second it was between his lips, however, all traces of anger were replaced by desperate enjoyment, as if that smoke were more precious than the very air around them. Mycroft indulged himself in tasting his brother's chest, running tongue and lips along the ridges of the Sherlock's ribs, gently biting the side of his torso, and reaching up to plant kisses along his collar bone. Sherlock's intermittent sighs and occasional moans encouraged him, directing him where to kiss or lick next, and Mycroft was only too happy to comply.

But he jerked back when he felt a sudden, fiery spark of pain at his nape. He threw his hand back there and found ash. Sherlock blew smoke in his face and smirked when Mycroft's glare didn't prove warning enough, so he squeezed Sherlock's cock hard at the base. That made the smirk fade rather quickly. He loosened his grip once Sherlock regarded him with the proper respect and warned, perhaps needlessly, “Do not ash on me.” 

Sherlock pressed his luck by taking another deep drag and expelling the smoke into Mycroft's face, but Mycroft only closed his eyes and tolerated the insolence. At least Sherlock flicked his ash on the desk this time. Sherlock smoked with grim determination, as it was nearing the filter, while Mycroft slowly began to slide his closed hand up the shaft and back down. 

“Have you been masturbating?” Mycroft asked in a casual tone as he watched his brother fight to control his body's violent trembling. 

Sherlock removed the cigarette from his mouth long enough to retort, “Yes.” 

Mycroft's hand stopped at the tip, and his thumb closed over the head like a lid. Sherlock groaned through clenched jaws. “How often?”

“Ah...I don't...three, no, four times a week.” His hand quivered as it returned the cigarette to his mouth. By now it was all the way down to the filter, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

Mycroft plucked the spent butt from his brother's fingers and put it out on his desk. It broke his heart to do something so trashy, but he did not have an ashtray on his desk, and with Sherlock around, he couldn't expect perfect tidiness anyway. “That often?” he purred. His thumb made tortuously slow circled around the tip, the nail just grazing the moist slit. “Good, then you'll last longer, won't you?”

“I can't promise that,” Sherlock hissed, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Mycroft tucked his brother's chin between his finger and thumb and gently pulled it down. “Well, I do hope you make an effort. You know I don't like the mess.” When he slid his hand down, Sherlock's body spasmed, and he shot his hands to his brother's shoulders. He squeezed and groaned, but he did not come.

“You can't expect me to last like this!” he protested through gnashing teeth, saliva dotting his lip from the exertion. 

“Goodness, what a tone you take with me!” Mycroft mock-scolded, giving Sherlock a rather vicious squeeze.

“Please!” Sherlock cried out. He was gripping Mycroft's jacket so hard, he had managed to pop one of the buttons undone. 

“Now, that is much better, wouldn't you agree?” Mycroft purred as his hand slowly released Sherlock altogether, his fingers trailing along the outside of his brother's thigh as it returned. With one hand resting on Sherlock's hip, the other rummaged in another desk drawer for a small bottle of lube. His lips parted hungrily at the sight of Sherlock's greedy eyes on it. “Is this what you came here for?” he asked in a low, breathy voice.

Sherlock nodded and unbuttoned the bottom of his brother's jacket without having to be told. With impatient zeal, he ripped the belt and zipper apart, thrusting his hand inside. He pulled Mycroft's cock out and held it, though not as tightly as his brother did to him.

For the most part, Mycroft was able to control himself, but a hitch in his voice revealed his own pressing desire, not to mention the erection Sherlock held in his hand. “Then tell me, properly this time, what you want.” 

Sherlock snatched the bottle from Mycroft's hand and squeezed a generous puddle into his palm, which was then slapped onto its intended destination. Despite his tightly disciplined control, Mycroft let out a sharp, raw gasp, and his grip on Sherlock's hip tightened. His thighs spread and his head leaned back as Sherlock slowly spread the lubricant. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock growled, leaning forward as his strokes became more aggressive. Mycroft could just barely see, when he was able to open his eyes, the steady, intense look on Sherlock's face. “Fuck me as if this might be the last time.” He pressed into Mycroft's body, lowering his face to the neck. He growled into Mycroft's ear, “Do it with no regard to anything but getting your own self off.” His lips caressed his brother's throat. 

Mycroft's chest heaved, and he sighed in delight at these words. Every time, it was some sort of variation, but it seemed that Sherlock was trying to outdo himself each time. “That was especially filthy,” he growled back. “Why the hesitation when I asked you before?”

“If you want me to talk dirty, you need to warm me up, brother, and you fucking know that.” And with that, Sherlock took a rough bite of his brother's neck, causing Mycroft to to push his hands rather weakly against Sherlock's chest.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hissed, his body tense. He was afraid to fight back and risk Sherlock's retaliation. His little brother literally had him by the throat. 

Well, this was new.

“Let go of me, Sherlock.” He had tried to sound intimidating, but his voice fell flat and pitiful with his rising panic. “For God's sake, you'll leave a mark!”

Sherlock only growled and bit down harder, forcing a rather undignified yelp from his brother. Finally, Mycroft rolled his eyes as he came to a solution. He grit his teeth as he snarled, “Please...”

Sherlock released him and leaned back to smirk in his face. “Oh dear. However will you explain that bruise? It does look lovely on you, though.” 

Mycroft's stern expression was cheapened by his parted lips, as though he could not decide whether to be angry or turned on. “You still take delight in making my life difficult, Sherlock?” he snapped. “How incredibly childish of you.” And while Sherlock laughed, enjoying his sadistic prank, Mycroft took him off guard by yanking his head to the side by the hair and taking a forceful bite himself. 

Even though he quite obviously deserved it, Sherlock put up a great fuss, forcing Mycroft to let go after a few seconds just to shut him up. His office was fairly private, but not completely sound proof, after all. Sherlock gave him an outraged expression and touched his hand to his throat. He did not, however, as Mycroft noted, remove his other hand from his brother's body, nor did he take that opportunity to get up and leave. He was behaving as if this were some unforgivable breach of trust, and yet he remained for more. 

“Oh, please,” Mycroft scoffed. “You have a scarf, after all.” 

“So then what, I'm to wear it at all times, even while inside?” Sherlock complained, even as he moved the way his brother's hands were guiding him. He gripped the side of the desk with one hand as he stood up over Mycroft's lap. 

“I fail to see the issue, considering you're constantly doing odd things as it is,” Mycroft argued back. The pair fell silent only as long as it took for Sherlock to ease down, taking his brother inside himself. Mycroft gripped Sherlock's arms tightly enough to leave bruises as he felt his brother struggling to relax himself, and not quite succeeding. “Easy,” he coaxed breathlessly. “Easy...”

Sherlock's face was flushed and his mouth hanging open when he finally pushed all the way down, and he flung his thighs open as far as he could without losing balance. And after a throaty moan that would be enough to arouse Mycroft for weeks just from the memory, Sherlock resumed the argument. “John will no doubt pester me with questions, especially considering he knew I went to see you.”

It took Mycroft a little longer to compose himself for a reply, as Sherlock began to grind his hips back and forth. He gripped Sherlock tightly around the waist and issued a few plaintive groans before hissing in reply, “Invent a mystery girlfriend, then! Must you be so--ahhh!!--simple-minded!”

Sherlock steadied himself with his hands on Mycroft's shoulders as he raised himself up and pushed back down. In a few more moves like this, he had a slow, erratic rhythm. He tossed his head back as he found his spot, though was very careful about stimulating it. “Your stupidity never ceases--oh dear christ--to amaze me, brother! John would never believe that.”

By now Mycroft had his hands tightly on Sherlock's hips, attempting to direct Sherlock's movements to his own preference. Sherlock was going entirely too slowly; it was agonizing. “Really, Sherlock,” he hissed. He had to catch his breath before continuing, with some effort, “So concerned about what your little pet thinks--”

Sherlock slammed himself down and remained still. With a hard look, he grabbed his brother's wrist and pulled it from his hip. “Don't call him that.”

Sherlock's aggressive retaliation was far more arousing than intimidating at this point, but Mycroft watched his tone. “You really are taken by this man, aren't you?” A mischievous grin spread on his face, his eyes narrowing. “Are you and he...?”

“What makes you think I'd tell you?” Sherlock snapped back. His angry retort made his body jerk forward, sending a jolt of sensation through them both, which neither one could hardly hide from the other. 

“Because you tell me everything, little brother. Whether by words or signs, you can't keep a secret from me.” Mycroft cast his eyes down from his brother's hard set face, to feast upon the rest of his quivering, damp body. Sherlock could not keep that attitude going with Mycroft's hand teasing his cock once again. “And anyway, I already know that you aren't. Respect him too much, is it?” he mocked, rather cruelly. 

“Don't ask me about him,” Sherlock whined. He twitched and gasped and let out all manner of small noises at every touch of Mycroft's hand, although they were slight and temporary. “Not now, please.” 

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “But it's curious to me that you had no problem gossiping about your previous flatmates, as fleeting as they were, but not this time.”

Sherlock's expression was almost too pitiful for even Mycroft to stand for very long. It was hard to tell how much of that was from the ever pressing need for release, and how much was from actual discomfort from this conversation. How very curious. He slid his hand off Sherlock's cock and up his body to stroke his neck, his fingertips gently caressing the angry red mark. “And now see for yourself the trouble such caring brings,” he said, as softly as he could while still exceedingly aroused. Both their bodies, while relatively inactive, were not quite still; they vibrated with a desperate, impatient energy, their heat warming each other. 

Sherlock cast wild eyes at his brother and ground hard against him, driving a surprised groan from him. “And yet you care for me, or do you?” he challenged. 

Mycroft flashed his brother a cold, toothy grin and swept his hands up Sherlock's back. “Sherlock, you are more essential to me than air. I don't care for you, I require you.” 

Sherlock returned with a smug smile, one that begged for more. He leaned forward when Mycroft gently pushed his back and accepted a fiery kiss on top of the bite that still pulsed with a dull pain. “That is why I'm the elder,” he continued in his ear. “I will have you for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock started grinding again. He moaned into Mycroft's ear as his hard on rubbed against his brother's belly through his shirt. “So when you die, I'm to be left alone?” he mewled. 

“Dreadfully sorry about that,” Mycroft sighed. “But I expect you won't far behind, especially if you keep up that damned smoking.” He grinned and pushed Sherlock back. “But if you don't mind, I'd like to change the subject. Get up.” 

If Sherlock's haste to obey were any indication, Mycroft would hazard to guess that he, too, was eager to avoid such morbid discussions. This was why he never allowed their conversations to take such turns, Mycroft reminded himself as he stood up to guide his brother to edge of the desk. If he had any reservations about making a mess earlier, they were dashed by now. He swept everything off the desk with his arm and roughly shoved Sherlock face down over it. His brother slammed both hands on the desk as the wind was knocked out of him, but he did not complain or move from the position Mycroft shoved him in. In fact, he moved his shaking legs apart and looked back at Mycroft, his face a mixture of nervous anticipation and impatient need. 

Mycroft took his time reapplying the lube before sliding behind Sherlock. He gripped Sherlock by the sides as he pushed himself in, and once again, Sherlock could not relax himself properly. Maybe one day he would learn. 

Every thrust was deliberate and controlled...at first. In less than a minute, however, Mycroft started taking his brother's request to heart, and pounded him mercilessly. He had to hold a hand over Sherlock's mouth to keep the noise down, but even he was having a hard time staying quiet. Not to mention each thrust created a loud banging sound from the desk. Really, if Sherlock had only come to him at the club, they wouldn’t have this problem. Far more privacy there. 

His thighs were screaming, burning from the ache of such intense, sustained exercise, and he felt his heart would give out, but he could not slow down, not yet. Nor would Sherlock forgive him for doing so, if his frantic writhing and slobbering over his fingers were any indication. 

Somehow, he found the stamina to continue until he climaxed, at which point, he felt he would surely faint. Shaking too badly to stand, Mycroft slid off Sherlock body and fell into his chair, where he leaned back and fought to catch his breath. He murmured various epithets as Sherlock pried himself off the desk and crept over to him. 

“You're not finished yet,” Sherlock said, taking a seat in Mycroft's lap, facing outward this time. 

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft breathed. “Terribly sorry.” He draped one arm wearily over Sherlock's shoulder and snaked the other around his waist to grip his cock. Still panting heavily, Mycroft placed kisses along Sherlock's neck and shoulder when he was able, and jerked him off. Sherlock leaned back against him and gripped Mycroft's hanging hand. Mycroft felt Sherlock's body tense tighter and tighter, like a string wound too taut, his voice growing in pitch, until it froze in one terribly intense moment, and sagged. 

Nearly a minute went by before Sherlock was able to speak. “I thought you didn't want a mess.” At first his brother was silent, but Sherlock laughed when he did.

“I'll feel better about it if you help me clean it up,” Mycroft said softly, his strength returning. 

When Sherlock turned, he made the entire chair spin, and he rifled through the desk drawers. “It's your office.” 

“Bloody Hell...what are you looking for?” Mycroft demanded, with one arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist. 

“I was promised another cigarette,” Sherlock stated, and he grunted in satisfaction when he found the pack. “Only three left? You'd better get more.” He chucked the pack back in the drawer and retrieved the lighter.

“Indeed?” Mycroft countered. He fished the lighter out of Sherlock's hands and guided him to turn around on his lap so he was facing to the side, and lit the cigarette for him. “And how many more do you suppose we'll need?”

Sherlock smiled and took the first drag. “I'll let you worry about that.” He offered his brother the cigarette and leaned against him. “That's your job.” 

“It's my job to worry about your needs, is it?” Mycroft asked with a small smirk. He pulled a nice, long drag before handing the cigarette back to his brother. 

“Quite so. And apparently for the rest of your life.” He took a smoke and planted a kiss on Mycroft's cheek before handing him the cigarette.

“Oh, marvelous,” Mycroft retorted. “As if I don't have enough to worry about.”

The brothers shared the rest of the cigarette in relative silence, and for a rare moment, were able to simply enjoy each other's presence and warmth without disturbing themselves with feuding. The second cigarette was extinguished in the same fashion as the first, and they shared a soothing kiss before separating. 

As Sherlock got dressed, Mycroft pointed out, “Your hair reeks.”

“I had a chat with someone on the street who happened to be smoking.” Sherlock draped his coat over his arm and walked over to Mycroft, who had stood up to adjust his clothing. He was now wiping down wherever needed it, and hoped that Sherlock intended to hop straight in the shower as soon as he got home. 

“A likely story,” he remarked. 

Sherlock made a face, revealing the first trace of embarrassment since he barged in Mycroft's office. “Well, he bought it last time.” 

Mycroft tittered and took a comb from his desk. Pulling his brother closer, he fought through that matted mess in an attempt to make him look like he hadn't just been jumped before he left the office. He also made Sherlock put his coat on and wrapped the scarf snugly around his neck. “There.” 

“What about you?” Sherlock asked with a mischievous gleam to his eye. 

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, his hands running down the sleeves of Sherlock's coat. “I have no bloody idea,” he confessed, prompting a laugh from his brother. “Ah, but how boring my life would be without you to agitate it for me.” 

Sherlock replied with a wink that was both irritating and endearing before stepping closer to hug him. As lovely as his warm body felt to be melding against his own, Mycroft pushed him off with a quick, sharp kiss on the lips and walked him to the door. “Out, Sherlock. Some of us have responsibilities to attend to.”

Once again alone in his office, Mycroft went back to his desk and took out a compact mirror to inspect his throat. He hissed in distress over the darkening red spot. “Bastard,” he whispered. “The exact same spot, again!”

THE END


End file.
